


Oh So Patiently

by somethingnerdythiswaycomes



Series: Isle of Flightless Birds [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, D/s AU, Dry Humping, Grinding, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Kink, Rope Bondage, Suspension Bondage, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:39:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7185509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingnerdythiswaycomes/pseuds/somethingnerdythiswaycomes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin likes the artistry of it – the patterns of the rope on Richie’s skin, the shapes he makes suspended in the air.  Richie likes being helpless.  Justin thinks there’s artistry in that, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh So Patiently

**Author's Note:**

> this is not the suspension bondage you're looking for.
> 
> (that'll be the next part of this)
> 
> i do not represent the real people presented as characters in this fic, nor do I make any claims about what they do or do not do in their private lives.

Justin installs it the day after he finds out Richie’s coming to Washington.  Washington’s a great city for high quality bondage gear – Justin’s pretty sure it’s because of all the politicians.  He buys all the hardware from a shop in a second-floor walkup in Dupont, the hooks and rings and bundle after bundle of navy blue rope.  He has some already, but Richie signing with the Caps is a special occasion.  He already has deep purple – from their time on the Kings – but this is a fresh start.  He needs fresh rope.  They’re able to sell him the structure, too, a thick wooden arm to secure to the wall in his basement, with a double-support so he can tie Richie anywhere on it he damn pleases.  It could be mistaken for an architectural feature, those fake-rustic wooden beams that Mitchie and Meg had in their LA house.  If someone figures out what it really is, Justin honestly doesn’t give a shit.

The point is – it’s easy to buy all the stuff he needs, and dig out the play collar from the box he swore he wouldn’t open.  It’s hard to find a rope bottom he wants, though, even in the scene here.  He hasn’t seen the point of buying all this equipment, when he didn’t have someone here.

But Richie’s coming.

 _Richie’s coming_.

Even though Justin doesn’t know if Richie’s going to want to jump back into his bed – or his rope, haha, he’s a comic genius – he wants to be prepared.  And he wants Richie.

But with the way things ended for them…

He’s prepared, and Richie’s going to be in DC in a few days.  It’s all he can hope for.

 

.oOo.

 

When Richie walks into the room in Kettler for the first time, Justin’s almost surprised at how happy he looks.

He shouldn’t be – Richie was pretty fucking unhappy the last time Justin saw him.  On waivers to go down to Manch, and on drugs, apparently.  It was when things were falling apart with Cartsy, too, and maybe this isn’t Richie _happy_ here, but just happier.

He’s smiling though, even when he clutches the strap of his gear bag and stands by the door, with the noise and bustle of the dressing room around him.

“Hey,” Justin says, walking over to him.  “Good to have you here, Richie.”

“You need a haircut,” Richie replies.

Justin laughs, and Richie smiles wider, and if Justin couldn’t hear Wilso and Latts shouting in the background he’d almost believe they were back in LA.

But they’re not – and when Richie looks over Justin’s shoulder, his smile shrinks back to a small, barely-there thing.  Justin misses it immediately.

“Richie here!” Ovi shouts, brushing past Justin to hug Richie tightly.  Richie tenses up right away, noticeably working to relax when Ovi pats him on the top of the head.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Richie says.

“Good to have you on the Caps,” Backy says, following behind Ovi and holding a hand out to Richie to shake.  Richie pauses, staring at it for a moment, before shaking it firmly.

“Your stall’s next to mine,” Justin says, knocking his shoulder to Richie’s.  He knows how sensitive Richie gets in new places, with new people, and how much he dislikes it when someone tries to lead him around.  He knows a lot about Richie.  “You getting on the ice today?”

Richie follows Justin to their stalls, and shakes his head.  “Not today.  Maybe a little, after team practice is done.”

“I’ll skate with you,” Justin offers.  “Be nice to be on the ice together again.”

Richie narrows his eyes a little; Justin doesn’t think he would’ve noticed if he wasn’t so used to reading Richie’s expression.

“All right,” Richie replies finally.  Justin grins at him and turns back to his gear.

 

.oOo.

 

They didn’t leave things on horrible terms last season when Richie was sent down to Manch.  They weren’t great terms, but not _horrible_.

Justin and Richie didn’t really play too much anyway.  It was really only when Richie needed to be held down or tied up – something that Cartsy wasn’t willing to do with him, not after that fuckup in Philly.

They discovered how much their preferences aligned, but they didn’t need each other.  Even if Justin had to buy his gear online or special order it through the shops in LA, it was easy to find a rope bunny that wanted a rigger who knew what they were doing.  Justin, if nothing else, knows how to work rope on a body.

He’s just not as interested in the other things.  Sure, he likes getting off as much as the next guy, but rope isn’t about that for him.  It’s about the art of it, the beauty.  You don’t go to a museum and jack off on a painting; Justin doesn’t really fuck his sub when they’re tied up for him.

Justin likes the artistry of it – the patterns of the rope on skin, the shapes his sub makes suspended in the air, the marks that even the softest hemp ropes leave.

A lot of the bottoms Justin’s tied up want it as a means to an end – they want to be tied up, hanging in the air or bundled up in a bed, and they want to get off like that.  They don’t appreciate the rope on its own.

Richie likes being helpless.  He likes to swing in the air with his legs bent behind him and his arms behind his back, rope looped around his waist and chest, facing towards the floor with nothing but rope and Justin’s skill keeping him up.  He likes to be covered, and held, and pressed back into his body.  Justin thinks there’s art in that, too, in how Richie sinks into it.  It isn’t sexual, not really.

The sex was a separate thing.

 

.oOo.

 

“Just lunch,” Justin says, when he and Richie are stripping off their pads after a rough practice a couple days later.  “I’ve got chicken marinating, and I’ve got kale and mushrooms.”

“Just lunch,” Richie replies, pulling his under armor over his head.  “Don’t leave your rope lying out in the open this time.”

Justin laughs and sits in his stall, starting to work on his sock tape.  “I told you, I’d just washed it!  It was drying!”

“Didn’t seem too wet when you were tying me to the chair.”

“You two played together?” Comes the question from off to the side.  Justin turns, and sees Latts, his eyes wide and his practice jersey held loosely in his hand.

Justin forgot, for a moment, that this team didn’t know their history.

“Yeah,” Justin says, going for simplicity.

Latts still looks a little stunned, but he nods.  “Cool.”

Richie laughs quietly.

“You need something else, kid?” Justin asks.  Latts shakes his head and flushes, going back across the room to Wilso, his jersey still clenched in his hands.

“Don’t scare him,” Richie chides him.  Justin laughs and nudges Richie.

“You know he’s a Dom, right?” Justin asks.

“He’s also got a sub that’s just waiting for a collar around his neck.”

Justin shrugs and peels his sock tape off.  “Just saying.  Wouldn’t be the first time a kid fell for your charms.”

Richie raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t say anything the rest of the time they’re changing, until Justin’s shrugging his coat on and Richie says, “Text me your address.”

Justin pulls out his phone and nods, typing as he walks out of the room.

Backy falls into step next to him, a brilliantly red scarf wrapped around his neck and almost covering his mouth.

“He’s adjusting well,” Backy says suddenly, not even bothering to use a name.

“Yeah,” Justin replies, finishing his message to Richie and shoving his phone back in his pocket.

“Have you put him down since he’s been here?”

If there’s something Justin’s always admired about Nicklas Backstrom, it’s his ‘take no shit’ attitude.  He’s a little less admiring when it’s turned on him, but it’s nice to see someone treating this as business as usual.

“No.”

“Has he asked?”

“No.”

“Have you offered?”

“No.”

Backy stops walking, and Justin pauses with him.  “You should,” Backy says, staring at Justin.

“I really shouldn’t,” Justin replies.

“It’s not sexual,” Backy says, and Justin blinks.  “Offer.”

“I’ll think about it,” Justin replies slowly.

Backy narrows his eyes and hums.  “Think hard.”

“You know I appreciate you looking out for him,” Justin tells him, “But I’m treading lightly.  I’ll bring it up, but I’m not going to offer.”

He needed to do something to escape the whole yeah-just-drying-my-bright-purple-rope-in-the-middle-of-a-Wednesday legacy he’s left in his relationship with Richie.  Propositioning him on a Tuesday over soy and ginger chicken isn’t really the way to do that.

“All right,” Backy allows, and he starts walking again.  Justin keeps pace with him, all the way until they get to the entrance to the garage.

“See you tomorrow,” Justin says, digging his keys out of his pocket.

“Talk to Richie,” Backy replies, and stalks off to his car.

Justin drives home, and he thinks about it.  It’s hard not to think about Richie tied up and hanging from the wooden beam in his basement, how the blue rope will press into his skin and leave marks for hours – maybe even days.  The look Richie gets on his face.

Richie always looks sort of on edge, really.  Not upset or tense, not really.  He’s like an eggshell.  He can stand up to a good amount, but if you find that one sensitive spot, he’ll crack and the cracks’ll get deeper, and he’ll just shatter.  He’s not fragile, but he has to be treated gently.

He’s not like that when he’s down, though.  When Justin’s got Richie bound up for him, that all melts away.  There’s no trace of that tension left in his face.  He’s just… full of bliss and calm, from the first moment the rope touches his skin until Justin’s bringing him back up after.

Justin pulls the chicken out of the fridge and gets it ready to go in the pan, pulling out the kale and mushrooms and starting to chop it up.

There’s a clatter at the door, and then a knock.  Justin goes out to the front door and pulls it open, grinning at Richie.  Richie’s blushing a little, a frown on his face.

“I forgot I didn’t have a key,” Richie says, brushing past him on his way in.

“I can get you one,” Justin replies, closing the door behind Richie.  “I’ll bring it to practice tomorrow.”

“I’d return the favor, but I’m still at the hotel.”

“Still?” Justin asks.  “The front office hasn’t helped set you up in an apartment?”

Richie shakes his head and sits at the kitchen table.  “I don’t want to get an apartment just for…” He trails off, but Justin knows how he was going to finish that sentence: he doesn’t want to get an apartment if he’s going to be moving on in a couple months.

“I’ve got a couple extra bedrooms,” Justin says, leaning back against the counter.  Richie looks up at him and raises an eyebrow.  “There’s one facing all the trees at the back of the house, and it has its own bathroom.”

“Willy, you really don’t need to do that,” Richie says quietly.

“I know I don’t have to,” Justin says, turning around and taking out the non-stick pan for the chicken.  “I want to.  You shouldn’t have to live in a hotel for the rest of the season.  You’ll have a key anyway.”

“All right,” Richie replies.  When Justin looks over at him, he’s smiling, staring at the wooden grain of the table.  “I’ll move my stuff in after practice tomorrow.”

“Great,” Justin says, and means it.  “I’ll help.”

Richie shoots him a grin – quick and sharp.  “You make any _additions_ since you moved in?”

Justin laughs, dropping the chicken breasts in the pan.  “I’ll show you after lunch.”

 

.oOo.

 

Richie’s different during sex.  It’s only obvious when Justin thinks about it, when he compares Richie at the rink and Richie on his couch drinking a beer and Richie suspended from the ceiling in hemp rope and Richie naked in his bed.

The most noticeable difference is how Richie’s not a typical sub when he’s having sex.

If Justin doesn’t take charge, then it’s almost non-dynamic sex.  Richie’s not like some of the other subs Justin’s fucked that need to be held down and ordered around and spanked and choked and everything.  Richie just wants _sex_.  He likes fucking, he likes being fucked, he likes hand jobs and blow jobs and rimming and pretty much everything that some of the guys would scoff at and call vanilla.  He also likes being held down and ordered around but it’s not necessary for him the way it is for a lot of the LA subs.

Justin likes it, too.  He likes not having to keep that headspace when he’s deep inside someone, or when they’re sucking him off.

And their play is separate from sex – maybe that makes it easier to separate them, and so hard to combine all the Richies he knows into one _Richie_.

But living together – now Justin sees Richie before his morning coffee, Richie stumbling to the kitchen for water in the middle of the night, Richie asleep on the couch holding a pillow to his chest, Richie grilling dinner with a beer in his hand.

He also sees a lot of Richie suspended from the ceiling by hemp rope.  They only do full suspension when there’s at least two days between games.  But partial suspension is a lot less stressful on Richie’s body, and Richie’s so conditioned to the rope that Justin can take the time to work on a classic Shibari tie and Richie doesn’t need to get out of it a half hour later.  He can sit there for hours, in an Ebi tie, while Justin pets his hair and watches cooking shows on mute.

They don’t have sex.

One time – Justin’s walking past Richie’s room to get a cup of tea from the kitchen, and he hears Richie moaning.  He pauses, and when he stands right next to the door he can hear the creak of the springs in the mattress, and Richie panting.

Justin remembers how Richie’s whole body gets into it – every inch of him coiled and ready to snap.  How he’ll squirm and buck up until he’s about to come, when he freezes and barely twitches.

He hurries along to the kitchen before he bursts into Richie’s room.

 

.oOo.

 

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable,” Richie says, but he’s listing against Justin’s side.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Justin says, leaning into Richie, pushing him against the arm of the couch.  Richie stares up at him, his face slack and eyes hazy.  “I want to give you what you need.”

“Hold me down,” Richie murmurs, sinking back into the couch cushions.  Justin presses closer, shifting Richie until they’re lying down on the couch, Justin stretched out on top of him.  Richie’s face is tucked into his neck, his breath hot and wet against Justin’s neck.

Food Network’s on, muted with subtitles, and Justin watches Giada make chicken and pasta idly as he feels Richie relax more and more into him.

“How’s that?” Justin asks quietly.

Richie sighs softly, and taps Justin on the shoulder once.  That’s their signal – one tap is great, two is slow down, and three is stop immediately.  Justin smiles, easing a little more of his weight onto Richie.

The effect is instantaneous; Richie sags into the couch, a small moan slipping out from between his lips.

Justin doesn’t pretend to understand what Richie gets out of this.  It’s probably similar to what he gets out of being tied up, but Richie had asked _specifically_ for Justin to lie on top of him, press him down and hold him.

This is different for Justin, too.  He’s not using his skills, he’s not distanced from his sub – no, _Richie_ – he’s using his body and it’s almost like crossing a line.  It’s crossing that line that separates their scenes from their sex.

Justin doesn’t know what to do about that.

Giada’s started making a roasted corn salad.  Justin thinks Richie might like it, and makes a mental note to look up the recipe.

To make for the next team barbecue – Oshie would probably like it, too, and maybe Burky.

Fuck it.  Richie’s his friend before he’s anything else, and Justin can make roasted corn salad for him.

Richie sighs out again, his breath ghosting along Justin’s neck.  Justin ducks his head, looking down at Richie.  He looks so content like this, his face relaxed like Justin doesn’t think he’s ever seen it.

Something settles in him.  He doesn’t have a name for it, but it’s there, and if his decades of life have taught him anything, it’s not going anywhere.

 

.oOo.

 

Apparently, his decades of life didn’t teach him everything.

 

.oOo.

 

“You’re kidding,” Backy says flatly.

“No,” Justin replies.

Ovi laughs, and Justin almost frowns at him before remembering that Backy has flattened guys on the ice just for _looking_ at Ovi.

“How can you not tell you’re in love with him?”

“Can’t judge, Nicky,” Ovi says, nudging Backy in the arm.  “Took you a long time, too.”

Justin wishes he’d gone to someone else on the team.  Orpik or Laich might’ve been able to give some advice.  But no, he’d gone to Backy, because Backy seems to know everyone’s shit and that’s a hell of a lot easier than explaining the whole thing to someone new.

But now they’re at Founding Farmers having brunch and Justin can’t figure out a good excuse to make an escape.

“You think of him as different people,” Backy says, turning his attention back to Justin.  “Right?  A different person on the ice and when you’re scening and when you’re—”

Justin nods quickly, just so he won’t have to hear Backy finish that sentence.

“And you can’t do that anymore.  He’s not separate people, Willy.”

Justin hums and takes a sip of coffee.

“Nicky try to do the same,” Ovi says conspiratorially, as if Backy isn’t sitting six inches away from him.  “It keeps you from telling what you’re feeling, because you feel different things for different Richies. But then they’re all the same Richie, and you’re feeling all those things for one Richie instead of lots.”

“That makes sense,” Justin says slowly.

“Of course,” Ovi replies, leaning back in the booth.  “I know all about relationships.”

Backy snorts into his coffee.

“Sure,” Justin says.  “But he doesn’t feel that way.”

Ovi raises his eyebrows, and Backy rolls his eyes.

“Have you asked?” Backy asks him, and then starts cutting off a piece of his waffle like that settles it.

“I don’t need to ask,” Justin replies.  “We’re not like that.”

“Neither were me and Nicky,” Ovi says with a shrug.  “Nobody’s like that until they are.”

That makes a surprising amount of sense.  Justin doesn’t anything to refute it with, so he pops a strawberry into his mouth.

Ovi beams at Nicky; Justin pretends to be absorbed in his food.

Ovi and Backy get like this sometimes.  They get pulled into their own little world and, for a couple minutes, forget anyone else around them.  Justin’s seen it happen before, and now, too.

At team breakfast the other day, Carly had sat at the same table as Justin and Richie, and not even five minutes later stood up and told them they’re too boring to sit with.  Justin had been fine, there, eating with Richie, mostly silent.  It wasn’t boring to him.

Maybe that’s how Backy and Ovi get.  To everyone else, they’re not talking, they’re boring, they’re too absorbed in each other.  But they love it.

They love each other, Justin amends, and bites into another strawberry.

 

.oOo.

 

Just because he’s figured it out doesn’t mean he does anything about it right away.

He’s a cautious man, when he’s off the ice, and he needs to think of the right way to come at this.

Of course, as with every other plan involving Mike Richards, it goes awry.

 

.oOo.

 

They’re playing the Kings – which is fine.  For Justin, at least.  He left the team of his own volition.  He thinks it’s different for Richie, because of how he left LA, in the end.

Which is why they’re in Justin’s hotel room and – there’s no better word for it – spooning.

Justin’s got Richie secure in his arms, pulled tight against him.  Richie’s curled up, and Justin pressed his face against Richie’s shoulder pretty much the moment they settled down.

He can feel Richie breathing, the steady expanding and contracting of his chest, the little bit of a whistle that slips through with the air leaving his mouth.

Justin’s holding Richie, tucked under the sheets and quilt, and the fact that they’re in LA makes it almost surreal, like they’ve jumped back to two years ago, when everything was still fine and there wasn’t this weight in Justin’s chest.

But if it were two years ago, Justin wouldn’t know how to categorize this Richie, and then maybe this wouldn’t be as much of a mess if he’d had to confront all these emotions and thoughts before Richie left.

“Stop thinking,” Richie mumbles, digging his face into the pillow.

“Sorry,” Justin whispers, rubbing his nose against the shoulder seam of Richie’s shirt.

Richie’s quiet for a moment, then says, “It’s weird being back here.”

“Yeah,” Justin sighs.

Richie shifts a little.  Justin holds him tighter.

“I like when you do that.”

Justin swears his heart stops.  “When I do what?”

Richie twists a bit.  Justin holds him tighter.

“That.”

Justin sucks in a breath, and lets it out slowly.

And, of course, he blurts out, “We haven’t had sex since you got sent down last season.”

Richie doesn’t laugh at him, which is something, at least.

“We haven’t,” Richie says instead.  “Have you been wanting to?”

“Sort of,” Justin replies, and then winces.  “More than sort of.  Of course I do.  But not _just_ sex.”

He feels like he’s back to being 16, trying to hit on a switch girl at a party one of the guys was having.  But this is a lot more important than getting his dick sucked in the bathroom.

Richie hasn’t said anything.  And then he squirms again, and Justin reflexively tightens his hold.

Richie taps him once on the hand.  _Oh_.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to,” Richie murmurs, pressing back against Justin.  “After last season.”

“Stupid,” Justin mutters.  “Of course I would.  I tied you up, didn’t I?”

“That’s not a sex thing.”

“I know,” Justin replies, and licks his lips.  “It’s more.”

Richie nods slightly.

At least they’re on the same page.

And – they’re in LA, they both want to – Justin rocks his hips against Richie, the start of his erection bumping into Richie’s ass.

“Here?” Richie asks, a little breathless.

“Yeah,” Justin replies, skating his fingers up under Richie’s t-shirt.  Richie arches into it.  “Unless—”

“No, yeah,” Richie says, his chin tucking down to his chest.  “Yeah, here.”

Justin grinds against him again, pulling Richie tighter against him.  Richie twitches back against him, his hands curling into fists in front of him.

It’s – nice.  Nice isn’t a word Justin has thought of to describe sex before, but it seems appropriate now.  There’s sun filtering in through the curtains over the window, and he and Richie are moving together syrupy slow, like they have all the time in the world.  It’s _nice_.

Justin moans softly, thrusting against Richie.  He twists his hips, and his dick slides perfectly against the crease of Richie’s ass, even through their underwear and sweats.

Richie gasps out a curse, his shoulders hunching and leg kicking out.

“Missed you,” Justin mutters, and a second later prays it was quiet enough that Richie didn’t hear.

“You, too,” Richie manages, and that’s okay, too.

Richie doesn’t fight against Justin’s hold on him, even when a whine slips out and he asks for more and Justin doesn’t give it to him.

It’s pretty difficult for Richie to come without someone touching his dick; Justin presses one hand down against him, and when he thrusts against Richie’s ass, he squeezes his hand around the bulge of Richie’s cock.

“Willy,” Richie groans.

“Yeah?” Justin pants, his eyes focused on the curve of Richie’s neck, on the glint of the necklace that Richie wears.

“C’mon.”

Justin watches the sunlight shifting over the golden chain, and pictures his collar there – maybe a thicker chain, a little shorter, gold, too, and curving perfectly with the dip of Richie’s collarbones.

Suddenly, an image flashes through his mind – Richie suspended from the wooden beam in his basement, arms behind his back crossed at the wrist, legs lifted up and facing the ceiling.  The navy blue rope wrapped around him, cradling him, keeping him immobile, and, in place of the thin faux leather play collar they use, a burnished gold chain.

Justin grunts into Richie’s hair, hips stuttering as he comes in his briefs.  Richie gasps, when Justin tightens his arms around him, his hand squeezing tighter around his cock.

“Did you—?” Richie gasps, hips working restlessly.

“Yeah,” Justin murmurs, pressing his thumb to the head of Richie’s cock, through the layers of his clothes.

“Fuck,” Richie whines, and he freezes, tension coiled through his body, and comes, too, his head tilting back against Justin’s shoulder, curls trailing over Justin’s cheek.

“Fuck,” Justin echoes, fitting his lips to the curve of Richie’s neck, where he knows his collar will sit, one day soon.

 

.oOo.

 

So Justin didn’t say it.  He hasn’t told Richie about the burning weight sitting between his lungs.

LA isn’t the place to do it.  They’ve moved on from here – it was _nice_ to have that time together, to feel that connection to who they were when they played here and won the Cup here, twice.  But that’s not them anymore.

That’s old Richie.  And sure, that’s a part of Richie, but not who he is now.

Justin likes new Richie – the one he sees drinking tea in the window seat of his bedroom before practice, and napping on the couch in the basement because it doesn’t get as much sun as the rest of the house, and stealing Justin’s briefs when all of his are dirty instead of doing his own laundry.

That’s Richie that does all that.  Richie drinks tea and naps in the basement and is too lazy to wash his underwear, and loves being suspended in rope and held down by Justin’s body and kissing him over their morning protein shakes.

There’ll be more parts of Richie that appear.  If Justin’s decades of life experience have taught him anything, it’s that.

**Author's Note:**

> (i swear i'm writing suspension bondage but it didn't fit here!! let justin williams have feelings!!)
> 
> join me in sin on tumblr @ somethingnerdythiswaycomes


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